


The Fallen Interlude

by sister_wolf



Series: Devil's Road [7]
Category: Hard Core Logo (1996), Lone Hero (2002), due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-19
Updated: 2004-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:41:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_wolf/pseuds/sister_wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The house is fucking <em>huge</em>, this looming brick mansion that wouldn't look out of place in a horror flick.  Billy shakes his head, staring up at the house from the front steps.  What the hell was Gina thinking, renting this place to record in?  It looks like a fucking haunted house.</p><p>Then again, with Joe around, the house really  <em>will</em> be haunted, Billy thinks with a small shiver.  There's been no sign of Joe since the weird sex in the limo.  Maybe he's tired out or something.  Joe always did tend to pretty much pass out after sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fallen Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after _Hard Core Logo_ and includes spoilers for the end of the movie. Knowledge of _Lone Hero_ is definitely not necessary to read this; those of you who do remember the movie will notice that I've changed canon in a few significant places. Huge thanks to my awesome betas, Brooklinegirl, Heuradys, and Justacat.
> 
> IMPORTANT WARNING: This series is unfinished and will never be finished. It also ends at a particularly bad point in the plot. I really do apologize for that.

The house is fucking _huge_ , this looming brick mansion that wouldn't look out of place in a horror flick. Billy shakes his head, staring up at the house from the front steps. What the hell was Gina thinking, renting this place to record in? It looks like a fucking haunted house.

Then again, with Joe around, the house really _will_ be haunted, Billy thinks with a small shiver. There's been no sign of Joe since the weird sex in the limo. Maybe he's tired out or something. Joe always did tend to pretty much pass out after sex.

"It's certainly very... large," Ben says, in this weirdly hearty voice.

"Large? It's the fucking Addams Family mansion," Billy says, shoving open the heavy wooden front door.

Ben nods and smiles, giving Billy the distinct impression that he has no idea who the Addams Family is. Didn't he watch TV as a kid?

The front door leads to a large foyer, a cavernous, dark-paneled room with several doorways leading off of it. The hardwood floor creaks underfoot as they cross to a set of open double doors, beyond which is a huge, shabby-looking living room. The furniture is all old, heavy stuff, lots of faded flowery fabrics. There are two couches set at an angle to an old-fashioned cabinet television. Cate and Gina are on one of the couches, Gina lying with her head pillowed on Cate's lap.

"Hey, you made it. Gina and I thought we might need to send out a search and rescue team," Cate says.

"Nah, just got, um, held up," Billy says, trying not to grin. Wouldn't bother him any, but he's sure that Ben would just about die of embarrassment if the chicks figured out just what they got up to in the limo.

Ben takes his hat off and stands there awkwardly, holding it in his hands. Billy stares at him for a few seconds before realizing what Ben is waiting for. "Oh! Uh, Ben, I'd like you to meet Cate and Gina. Gina, Cate, this is Corporal Benton Fraser of the RCMP."

"Pleased to meet you," Ben says.

"Hey, Ben," Gina says casually, not getting up.

Cate gives Gina a chiding look and pushes her off her lap. She stands up, reaching her hand out for a handshake. "Nice to meet you, Ben. Here, have a seat. You want anything to drink? Water, pop, beer?"

"Ah, water would be fine, thank you."

"Cool. You want some water too, Billy?" Billy nods and Cate bustles off toward what Billy assumes is the kitchen.

Billy sits down on the other couch, sprawling with his arm draped over the back. Ben sits down next to him neatly, with his back straight and his hat held in his lap.

Gina looks at Ben skeptically. "So what's a Mountie doing in Chicago?" she asks, slanting Billy a look that clearly reads, _What the hell are you doing picking up a cop?_

"I first came to Chicago on the trail of... ah, that's not really germane at this juncture. I've returned to Chicago to assist in developing a cross-border law enforcement coordination initiative," Ben says, suddenly sounding prim and proper. Billy squints at him and decides he likes sarcastic, messy Ben a lot better.

"Ah," Gina says, giving Billy another speaking look.

Billy tries to give her the look of _Yeah, I know he's a freak, but he's good people, so be nice._ He's not sure if it gets through to her.

"Here you go," Cate says, coming back from the kitchen with two glasses. She sets them on the coffee table in front of Billy and Ben and sits back down on the couch next to Gina.

"Thank you kindly, Cate," Ben says.

"Yeah, um, thanks." Billy gives Cate a desperate look-- surely she can do the small talk thing better than Gina.

"Have the two of you known each other for long?" Cate asks, sounding suspiciously innocent. Billy glares at her and Cate smiles impishly at him. He's suddenly positive that she knows _exactly_ what they were doing in the limo.

"No, actually we met at the airport. You see, Billy looks remarkably like my former partner, Detective Ray Kowalski."

"Really?" Cate arches her eyebrows. "Well, they say that everyone has a double somewhere."

"Many native peoples believe that encountering one's double, or doppelgänger, is a harbinger of imminent death. Interestingly enough, the Inuit--" Ben stops abruptly, seeming to realize that everyone in the room is staring at him. "Well. At any rate, I'm certain that no harm would befall either Ray or Billy should they encounter one another."

There's a brief, uncomfortable silence. Gina stares at Ben like he just sprouted a second head.

"Well," Cate says brightly, "I should show you your room, Billy. You'll really like it, there's a great view of the back garden."

"Sounds great," Billy says, bouncing to his feet.

"Will you be staying over, Ben?" Cate asks.

Ben gives Billy an uncertain look.

"Yeah, he will be," Billy says, giving Ben a slow smile. Ben turns faintly pink and rubs a thumb across his eyebrow.

"Great! Let's get your luggage moved upstairs. Come on, babe," Cate says, tugging a reluctant Gina toward the foyer.

"You okay, Ben?" Billy asks quietly.

"Yes, I am, I'm simply..."

"A little overwhelmed? I get it. Come on, we'll get the luggage upstairs and try out the bed-- for sleeping, I mean," Billy says, winking.

* * *

In the limo, it all seemed so simple-- stay over with Billy, share a little human warmth and closeness, perhaps have another enjoyable interlude together before leaving tomorrow morning and never seeing him again. Now that he's here, though, now that he's met Billy's band mates-- not just met them but actually had them help carry his luggage up to Billy's room-- Fraser feels completely self-conscious, naïve, and out of his depth.

Billy flops onto his back on the queen-sized bed and spreads his arms out to either side. "Nice."

"It is a very nice specimen of late Victorian architecture," Fraser says. He crosses to the windows that overlook the back garden. "The stained glass panels above the window appear to be original, perhaps circa 1910. This style of--"

"Ben."

Fraser clears his throat. "Yes?"

"You're babbling. C'mere." Billy scoots up against the headboard-- carved walnut with a pineapple motif, indicating hospitality, Fraser notices-- and pats the bedspread next to him. "Sit down. I won't bite. Unless you ask me to," he grins.

Fraser sits on the very edge of the bed, his feet still flat on the floor. "Jesus," Billy mutters. He pokes Fraser in the shoulder with a long, bony finger. "Take off your boots and sit on the bed for real. Feet on the comforter and everything. There, isn't that better?"

Fraser sits next to Billy tentatively, with his back against the headboard and his feet on the bed as requested. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm-- well, no, that's inaccurate, I _do_ know why I'm acting like this. I simply don't know how to stop it."

Billy bumps his shoulder against Fraser's companionably. "Because it's been so long since you've shared a bed with anyone else that you've forgotten how? I know that one."

Fraser nods, staring at his socked feet. One of his socks needs to be darned, he notices. "It's been a very long time indeed."

"Yeah." Billy suddenly tenses and mutters in an oddly edged tone, "Passing out on the floor together does _not_ fucking count."

"No, I never suggested that it would," Fraser says, puzzled.

"Never mind. Touring, you know? Sometimes you end up sleeping on floors. Which is not anything like deliberately sleeping together on a bed with someone you _like_."

"I see."

"Anyhow. Doesn't matter anymore. It's all in the past, where it can stay buried. Like things _should_. When they're dead. Fucking _stay_ buried."

"In my experience, things which should stay dead and buried very seldom do."

Billy frowns. "Yeah, I've noticed. Anyhow. This," he says, lifting Fraser's arm and tucking himself underneath it, one arm and a leg flung over Fraser's body, "is called cuddling. Cuddling is what you do when you _want_ to be with someone."

"That's what I've heard," Fraser agrees, trying to settle himself comfortably.

"And if the rest of the world doesn't like it, the rest of the world can just fuck the hell off and _go away_."

Fraser stares at Billy, perplexed. It almost seems like he's carrying on two conversations at once. "That seems fair."

There's a sudden cold breeze from somewhere-- maybe the windows aren't as well sealed as they should be. Billy's tense muscles relax abruptly. "Sorry about that. I just have some... issues. Unresolved issues. That's what my shrink says, anyhow."

Fraser isn't entirely sure what to say to that, so he settles on a noncommittal "Mmm." He rubs one hand up and down Billy's back, slowly getting used to the feeling of someone else's weight and heat against him.

"I can tell you're going to be too fucking polite to ask. So yes. I go to a shrink. The record company kind of required me to, after Joe..."

There's a pause. Fraser arranges a pillow behind his back and settles himself more comfortably. He keeps rubbing circles on Billy's back.

"After Joe fucking killed himself, I fell off the wagon for a while. Well. I'd been off the wagon, I guess I just fell further off of it. Started drinking and didn't stop for a couple months, not even for performing. The record company wanted to fucking can my ass. Gina and Cate went to bat for me. Told me that if I went to a shrink and AA, I could stay in the band."

The bedside lamp throws huge shadows across the ceiling. Fraser stares at the shadows, thinking about Ray. Billy doesn't use the same hair gel as Ray, but there's a similar scent and feel to the soft spikes that brush against the bottom of Fraser's jaw as Billy speaks.

"Anyway. Enough about me. Let's talk about you," Billy says, chuckling for some reason.

"What do you want to know?"

"Why aren't you with your partner-- with Ray? I know you said that he doesn't know you want him, but why didn't you tell him? Is he just absolutely straight, no hope at all?"

Fraser heaves a sigh. "The last time that we saw one another, Ray told me that he loves me."

"What?" Billy's head jerks up and he stares at Fraser. "He told you that?"

"Yes."

"So why aren't you two fucking like minks?"

"Because I was afraid."

"Of what?"

Fraser sighs. "Of everything."

* * *

The sun was just rising, the peach glow spreading slowly across a leaden sky. Fraser and Ray sat in uncomfortable silence on the hard plastic airport chairs, waiting. At their feet, Dief lay sulking with his head on his paws. He'd been absolutely impossible ever since he'd realized that Ray was leaving for good. That Ray had a life, a job, a family, back in Chicago was immaterial to Dief, and he rejected all of Fraser's attempts to explain. As far as he was concerned, Ray was part of their pack, and his leaving upset the basic balance of the universe.

It was impossible to explain to Diefenbaker why Ray had to go away, when Fraser himself so desperately wanted Ray to never leave. He had been truly happy, for the first time in his adult life, for the few months that he and Ray had spent wandering about the Northwest Territories, having what Ray called "adventures." No duty, no responsibility, simply the pleasure of Ray's company and the freedom of the wilderness.

But this vacation from real life couldn't last forever. Ray had a job, back in Chicago, and the Lieutenant's generosity was not without its limits. Reluctantly, they'd returned to civilization. Fraser had checked in with his superiors; Ray had bought plane tickets.

Every good thing ended, eventually.

"So, I... um." Ray shifted restlessly and scratched the back of his neck.

"Yes?"

"I wanted you to know that I... I had a real good time. Good adventures."

"That they were," Fraser said warmly.

"So, when do you... are you gonna stay in Yellowknife, you think?"

"No, Yellowknife is just a temporary posting, while they decide on a permanent posting for me."

"Are you gonna... you figure you'll go somewhere smaller than this? Some little place in the wilderness?"

"It's certainly what I plan to request." He hadn't really given it much thought. Ray was leaving. Anything beyond that was unimportant.

"That's good, that's... great to know you'll be out where you want to be." Ray's smile looked a bit strained.

They lapsed into silence once more. The overhead public announcement system crackled, announcing boarding for Ray's flight.

"That's my ride," Ray said, standing. Fraser stood next to him, wordless.

"So, uh... Dief, you take good care of him, huh?" Dief whined, groaning and hiding his head under a paw. Ray went down on one knee, digging his fingers into Dief's ruff and scratching him gently. "C'mon now, buddy, you gotta promise. You take care of Frase, here. Okay? And I'll come back to visit, I promise, 'kay?"

Standing up, Ray looked strangely young, dwarfed by the bulk of his parka. "So, um, jeez. Fraser. Take care of yourself. C'mere." Ray stepped forward, his arms coming up and pulling Fraser into a tight hug.

"You too," Fraser said, aware of the inadequacy of anything he could say at this point.

Fraser tried to break the hug after it had gone on a few moments past what was appropriate for friends, but Ray held onto his shoulders with surprisingly strong hands. "Wait. There's something I gotta say. And I gotta say it now, before I leave and it's too late. Fraser, uh--" Ray paused and took a deep breath. "I love you."

And to Fraser's everlasting shame, he clapped Ray on the back, smiled, and said, "I love you too," as if it meant nothing at all to him. As if it were just something that a close friend might say when saying goodbye.

Ray pulled away and stared at him, his eyes wide and suspiciously shiny. Fraser turned away and grabbed Ray's duffel bag from the floor. "You'd better board. You don't want to miss your flight."

"I guess-- um. Yeah." Ray blinked furiously and took the duffel bag. "I guess this is goodbye."

"Have a good flight," Fraser said.

"Yeah. Uh. Bye." Ray turned quickly and strode away. Fraser didn't watch him go.

At his feet, Dief growled and barked, then turned his back ostentatiously. "I didn't ask for your opinion, Diefenbaker," Fraser snapped.

This was for the best, after all. Ray would come to his senses, once he was back in Chicago. He might think he was in love with Fraser, but it wouldn't last. Love never did.

Fraser walked away from the airport without looking back, telling himself that he'd be fine, with time. Hard work was the answer. He'd immerse himself in his work, and someday he'd be able to think of Ray without this awful stabbing pain in his chest.

He just wished he didn't feel so utterly lost.

* * *

The funeral had been awful. Reporters clustered around the cemetery like perfumed and hairsprayed vultures. The harsh sounds of Joe's mother crying, pathetic in her cheap, black polyester dress. The doughy, scowling face of Joe's father, with the broken red veins of the lifelong alcoholic. Pipe and John, huddled together, staring at Billy with vaguely accusatory eyes, like he should be able to explain it or something.

It.

Joe's suicide.

Bruce, that fuckwad, hadn't come to the funeral. Maybe he'd heard about Billy threatening to beat him to death with his own camera. Maybe he had some sense of compassion and decency after all.

Or maybe he had enough footage already.

They'd buried Joe in a cheap black suit. Open casket. The damage to his skull hadn't really been all that severe. The gun he used was just a little .38 special, not powerful enough to blow a big hole in his skull, just powerful enough to kill him. A little putty, a little makeup, and voila. Joseph T. Mulgrew, looking more respectable in death than he ever had in life.

Billy had started drinking as soon as his alarm clock went off that morning. Kept drinking throughout the funeral. Stayed just sober enough not to pass out or start crying-- or yelling-- during the service. Then he went back to his hotel room and settled down with a bottle of Jack. Jack Daniels, in honor of Joe Dick. Only the best for the legendary Joe Dick.

He really was a legend now. Killed himself on camera. Billy wondered if Bruce would put that footage in the film. Wondered what the _fuck_ Joe was thinking. What went through his mind, right before a small caliber bullet did.

"Oh fuck..." Billy reached the toilet just in time.

Wrung out and shaking, he rested his head on the blessedly cool porcelain, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

"Never could hold your whiskey, Billiam, you fucking lightweight."

"Fuck you, Joe," Billy retorted without thinking.

"That's not buddies."

Reality finally made it through the fuzziness in Billy's mind. He froze, lifting his head off of the toilet. Very quietly, Billy asked, "Joe?"

The bathroom was cold. Really fucking cold. And empty of anyone other than Billy.

"Joe?"

No one answered. Suddenly feeling a lot more sober, Billy struggled off of the bathroom floor and rinsed his mouth out at the sink.

"When you start hearing things, it's time to stop drinking," he told his reflection in the mirror. Billy leaned closer to check out one of the still-spectacular bruises on his jaw. Something moved in the mirror, catching Billy's attention.

Joe was standing behind him.

" _Fuck!_ " Billy yelled, spinning around. Clutching the sink, he stared wildly around the bathroom. There was no one there.

"Oh, fuck, oh fuck," Billy muttered, almost hyperventilating. He staggered to the door of the bathroom and stared out into the hotel room. Empty. There was no one else in there. He was hallucinating.

That's all it was. Just a hallucination. Because there was no way in hell that Joe was there. Joe was dead. Bullet-through-the-head dead. And there's no such thing as ghosts.

Clutching the bottle of Jack Daniels in a white-knuckled grip, Billy sat down on the bed. "Just imagining things," he said, his voice suspiciously shaky. He turned on the TV and fumbled for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

Joe's funeral was a big enough story, in his hometown, to make the evening news. One of the hairsprayed vultures from the funeral was standing in front of a run-down two-story house. "Joseph Mulgrew, a.k.a. Joe Dick, grew up in this small house on the east side. His father, Joseph Sr., worked in a cannery; his mother, Libby, worked from home as a seamstress so that she could raise young Joe and his sister Patricia. From these humble beginnings, Joe Dick rose to become an icon of the Canadian punk scene. But just as quickly as his star rose, it crashed to earth, pulled down by a lifelong struggle with addiction and depression, a struggle that would end in violence and suicide. After the break, we'll talk to the people who knew him, and explore the tragic history of a once-promising musician."

"Jesus fucking christ." Billy muted the television. He rubbed his hands over his face, feeling a tickle of tears behind his eyes. "Joe, you asshole. Why the fuck did you have to do it? What the hell were you trying to prove?"

Billy wrapped his arms around his middle and leaned forward to rest his head on his bent knees. "Fuck, Joe. I'm so fucking lost."

* * *

He'd been pulled out of his cell without a word of explanation and left to wait, handcuffed, in a nondescript room with a table and two chairs. Cal sat slumped in an uncomfortable metal chair, wondering what the hell this was all about. Maybe they were going to offer him a deal if he squealed on Bart. Cal rejected that possibility immediately, unconsciously rubbing his wrists against the handcuffs. He couldn't betray Bart.

An older man, silver-haired and conservatively dressed, entered the room. He stopped, staring at Cal with a weird expression on his face.

Cal scowled, demanding, "What?"

"You don't recognize me, do you," the older man said as he unlocked Cal's handcuffs.

Cal shrugged, rubbing his wrists. "Nah. Should I?"

Sitting down at the table across from Cal, the older man sighed and steepled his hands together. "My name is Jack Bennett. I'm an Assistant Director with the Federal Bureau of Investigations."

"Yeah? What do you want with me?" Cal asked, trying not to look impressed.

Bennett just looked at him, long enough that Cal shifted uncomfortably, looking away. "I'm your boss."

"What?"

"You're Special Agent Calhoun MacKenzie, and I'm your boss."

Cal stood up suddenly, scraping his chair across the floor. "Fuck you. What is this bullshit?"

"It's not bullshit, Cal. It's the truth. Now sit down." Bennett held Cal's eyes calmly until he sat down again. Putting a briefcase on the table, Bennett pulled out a thick file and rifled through the contents. "Here it is. Calhoun Kingston MacKenzie, born May 31, 1963 in Buffalo, New York, to Rose MacKenzie, an unwed mother. Raised primarily by your grandparents in Buffalo, with summers spent with your aunt Pearl in Kingston, Ontario."

Cal frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. "You coulda gotten that information from anywhere. Doesn't prove anything."

Bennett tapped his fingers on the file. "True. Well, then, where did you go to university?"

"Queen's," Cal answered without thinking.

"And what did you do after university?"

Cal's mouth opened, but nothing came out. He closed his mouth and frowned fiercely. "I don't have to answer that."

"You joined the FBI."

"That's a lie!" But he couldn't quite remember what he'd done, in the ten years between university and meeting Bart. Why couldn't he remember? Cal frowned, rubbing his wrists.

Bennett pulled an ID badge out of the file and handed it to Cal. He squinted at it, seeing the name "Calhoun K. MacKenzie," next to a photo of himself with neat, short hair.

Cal raised his chin belligerently. "So if I'm some kind of FBI agent, why am I with the Iron Bandits? I'm Bart's second in command. Your story's full of shit, old man."

"You were deep undercover, relaying information about the movement of drugs across the Canadian border. Bart's gang is a very small segment of a biker-controlled drug distribution network that stretches from Vancouver to Texas."

Cal shrugged, not saying anything. He wasn't about to rat Bart out.

"Eighteen months ago, you disappeared. We thought you were dead. Until about six months later when you were spotted riding with Bart's gang. You didn't respond to any attempts that we made to communicate with you. We're not entirely sure what happened in the intervening six months, but our theory is that your cover was broken and that Bart somehow managed to brainwash you. Probably through a combination of torture and psychological reprogramming techniques."

 _The cellar is so dark that he can't tell whether his eyes are open or closed. Something, probably a rat, is making rustling noises not far from him. He's chained to a ring set into a concrete slab-- naked, cold, and terribly hungry. He's not sure how long he's been down here. He wonders if Bart is planning on leaving him here to starve to death._

Cal leaned forward, scrubbing his hands through his hair and pressing on his temples, where a sudden, intense headache made his brain feel like it was about to explode. This couldn't be true. It couldn't.

Bennett's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Cal. I know you're confused right now, but please trust me. I have the full resources of the Bureau behind me. We let you down before, but I promise you, we won't let you down again."

Cal threw himself to his feet and stalked away from the table. He didn't know what the fuck to think. This morning he knew who he was-- he was Calhoun King, full patch member of the Iron Bandits, Bart's right hand man, one mean motherfucker.

Now he wasn't sure who he was anymore. God, he just felt so fucking lost.

* * *

It was the ass-crack of dawn, and Ray had not had enough coffee to deal with this. Nursing a horrible cup of airport coffee, he sat slumped in one of the most uncomfortable chairs known to man.

Next to him, Fraser looked alert and bushy-tailed, ready for another exciting day in the Northwest Territories, with temperatures that could give exposed skin frostbite in ten minutes, hidden ice crevasses that could swallow a dogsled whole, and more pemmican and oatmeal than you could shake a stick at. The depressing part was, Ray was actually going to miss it. Not nearly as much as he was going to miss Fraser, of course, but missing Fraser was like missing his right hand or something. Missing part of himself.

But the vacation had to end sometime, right?

"So, I... um." Fuck. He had no idea what to say.

"Yes?" Fraser sounded calm, polite-- as if the bearded, grinning, _happy_ Fraser of the wilderness had been stuffed back into his little box and all that was left was Constable Benton Fraser, Super Mountie.

"I wanted you to know that I... I had a real good time. Good adventures." _Ray, my friend, you sound like an idiot._ He was no good at goodbyes. Goodbyes sucked. Ray made desperate, meaningless conversation with Fraser, all the while suppressing an urge to throw himself at Fraser's feet and beg to come home with him. He'd sleep on the floor. He didn't eat much, it'd be just like having another dog around.

Fraser sounded weirdly noncommittal about his plans for after Ray left. Ray would have figured he'd already be planning to get his very own little one-room cabin in the wilderness, just enough room for Fraser, Dief, and the sled dogs. No room for a Chicago flatfoot with experimental hair. Ray tried to sound happy for him. And he was, he just... wished that _he_ was where Fraser wanted to be.

The PA crackled. "Now boarding flight 952 for Edmonton." The whole repeating everything in French thing was even beginning to seem normal to him.

"That's my ride." He couldn't look at Fraser. Dief whined at him, looking pathetic. Ray knelt and thumped him on the side, telling Dief to take good care of Fraser. He'd swear the wolf gave him a skeptical look, like _and how am I supposed to keep him out of trouble?_

He couldn't put it off any longer. "So, um, jeez. Fraser. Take care of yourself. C'mere." Fraser's hug was tentative at first, but Ray hung on until Fraser finally hugged back for real, squeezing the breath out of him.

"You too," Fraser said, sounding a little choked up.

Fraser tried to break the hug after a few minutes, but Ray held on like a limpet. He had to say it. It was now or never. "Wait. There's something I gotta say. And I gotta say it now, before I leave and it's too late. Fraser, uh--"

Fuck. He was really gonna say this. He was really gonna-- "I love you."

Fraser stiffened up like a board for just a brief moment, so quick that Ray almost missed it, and then slapped him on the back and said, "I love you too," like it meant nothing to him. Like it was just something that you'd say to your best friend when you were saying goodbye for a long time.

It was like being punched in the stomach, the sudden pain and not being able to breathe. _Oh. Fuck. I guess the answer's no, then, huh. Right. I'm okay-- I'm okay with this. Just gotta pretend like nothing's wrong..._

Fraser apparently hadn't noticed anything weird. He was standing there with Ray's duffel, saying, "You'd better board. You don't want to miss your flight."

Ray said goodbye without even really hearing the words, walking away from Fraser as fast as he could without actually running. He stumbled through boarding and finding his seat on autopilot. If he could just keep moving, he wouldn't have to think about it. Wouldn't have to feel this pain that was like an ice pick stabbing through his chest.

But it was okay. It was okay, really. Because Fraser might not love him the way he wanted to be loved, but he loved him as a best friend, and that was as much as Ray could ask for. Fraser was his best friend, and he was going to be okay with this.

If only he didn't feel so fucking lost.

* * *

Cal is just floating on the edge of sleep-- not quite aware of where he is, just that he's warm and comfortable-- and the wet warmth surrounding his cock seems like just another dream at first. Slow, strong suction, taking him closer and closer to the edge, and he's not in control of this ride, doesn't even want to be, though he's waking up a little now and realizing that he's actually not dreaming. He's in Ray's bedroom, the room flooded with golden sunlight.

Ray's eyes flick open and he catches Cal watching. He slides his mouth off of Cal's cock, laves the tip with the flat of his tongue, and says cheerfully, "Good morning. Sleep well?"

Cal whimpers.

"I'm sorry, did you want something?" Ray grins mischievously.

Cal growls and pounces.

"I didn't quite catch that--" Ray starts to say, but Cal seals his mouth with a deep kiss. Slanting his mouth against Ray's, he pushes him down onto the bed. Ray's body is relaxed and warm with sleep. He slides his hands under Ray's shoulder blades and starts a slow rhythm, pressing himself into the hollow of Ray's hip. Ray strokes his hands up and down Cal's back, kissing him with leisurely passion.

There's a dreamy, unreal quality to it-- the air is still, quiet sound of birds chirping, flood of honey-warm sunlight through the blinds. Cal slides down Ray's body, licking the hollow of his throat, one of his small brown nipples, the sharp rim of his pelvic bone, the salty, slick head of his cock. Ray moans and pants, wordless for once, responding with a sharp cry to Cal taking his entire length into his mouth. Cal works him unhurriedly, drawing it out until Ray is completely incoherent with pleasure.

"I want to fuck you."

"Yeah, yeah, anything--" Ray moans.

Cal grabs the supplies and kneels on the bed between Ray's spread legs. He takes his time with preparations, enjoying the view. Ray's head is thrown back, his throat arched, his hands clawing into the sheets, his limber body literally _writhing_ across the bed.

"Cal, c'mon, _jesus_ , stop teasing me--"

Cal means to keep teasing, means to fuck Ray as slowly as he possibly can, but the moment he's in, Ray goes completely wild, clawing his back, bucking against him, and Cal just closes his eyes and lets go of all self-control, fucking him hard, _harder_. They slide up the bed until Ray stretches his arms above his head and braces them against the headboard, arching his back, pushing into Cal's thrusts, making the headboard thump against the wall. Orgasm slams through Cal, and he freezes, shaking hard, braced over Ray, feeling the tight clench of muscles around his cock as Ray brings a hand down to finish himself off.

Cal pulls out and collapses onto the bed, panting. Rolling over, Ray drapes his arm over Cal's stomach. Wrapping an arm around Ray's shoulders, Cal closes his eyes, just intending to rest for a while...

Some time later, he wakes up again, not sure how long he's been napping. Cal stretches, yawning. He's pretty sure he has an enormous shit-eating grin on his face. "And a good morning to you, too," he tells Ray, who's blinking at him groggily.

Ray gives him a sleepy smile. "Morning."

"Time is it?"

"About ten."

"Mmm." Cal rolls onto his side, facing Ray. "Every morning should be just like this. Sleep in, fuck, sleep in some more."

"Can't be. Some of us have to go to work in the morning," Ray says, poking Cal in the stomach.

"Ugh, don't remind me." Cal grimaces.

Ray snorts. "You don't even have a job, ya bum."

"Yeah, I do."

"Where?"

"'Cross-border law enforcement coordination initiative,'" Cal says, making air quotes.

"What the hell is a 'cross-border law enforcement'-- whatever?"

"Ehh, some sort of bullshit project that's supposed to look nice for public relations. I start tomorrow."

"I thought you weren't FBI anymore," Ray says, frowning.

"I'm not. I'm a civilian consultant." Cal rolls on his back, throwing his arm above his head on the pillow. "I'm too fucked in the head to be an agent, but too useful to throw away completely. Also, potentially politically embarrassing, if I ever decide to open my mouth around the wrong people. Jack pulled a few strings and got me assigned to this thing."

"Who's Jack?"

Cal shrugs, looking up at the ceiling. "My old boss. I guess he feels guilty or something."

"For what went down, when you were..."

"Yeah. You ever think-- you ever think, there isn't all that much that separates us from the bad guys. A badge. But when it comes right down to it..." Cal's voice trails off.

"No. No, I don't. It's a hell of a lot more than just a badge, Cal."

Cal sits up abruptly. "Shit, I don't wanna talk about this anymore. You want some breakfast? I make a mean pancake."

"Okay." There's a groove between Ray's eyebrows and he's looking at Cal thoughtfully, in a way that makes the hair on the back of Cal's neck stand up. If Ray starts digging...

"Ray. I'm sorry, but I can't-- I've told you too much already." Cal scrubs a hand over the back of his neck and continues quietly, "Please don't dig into this. There's gotta be flags all over my files. I don't want to see you get mixed up in this shit."

Ray looks away and shrugs. "Okay."

"Promise?"

Ray glares at him. "Yes, Cal, I fucking promise."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

"You want pancakes?"

"Okay."

* * *

"You got pancake mix?"

Ray scratches his head and thinks about it. "Uhh-- I think there might be some-- yeah, here it is," he says, pulling a dusty box from the very back of a lower cupboard.

"Nice. How long's that been down there, since dinosaurs roamed the earth?"

"Nah, just since my divorce." It's some kind of yuppie pancake mix, with organic dehydrated blueberries and whole-wheat flour. Stella must have bought it.

"Shit, I'm sorry," Cal says, wincing.

"Nah, don't worry about it. I'm pretty much over it. Took me a while, but, you know. I'm okay with it now." And he really is, pretty much. There's still kind of a hollow ache in his chest when he thinks about it, but it's faded. Doesn't hit him with the same force it used to. Not like during the divorce, when the pain would sometimes get so bad it felt like he was having a heart attack or something.

"Want coffee?" Ray asks, pulling the coffee can down from the upper cupboard.

"Hell yeah." They share the sympathetic smile of mutual caffeine addicts.

Cal flips the first finished pancakes off the griddle. They eat standing up against the kitchen counter, waiting for the next set of pancakes to brown. Ray feels a little twinge of vindictive glee at eating The Stella's yuppie organic pancakes with cheap, fake maple syrup on his tacky cow-print plates. And not sitting down at the kitchen table "like civilized people" the way she always insisted on doing.

"Fraser'd have a cow, you know. That we're using fake maple syrup. Says it's nothing but sugar and artificial flavors."

Cal grunts and washes down a mouthful with some coffee. "He's right. Doesn't taste anything like maple syrup."

"What are you, Canadian or something?"

"Close enough." Cal dishes up two more pancakes. "My mom was, but I was born in New York. Spent the summers in Kingston with my aunt, the winters in Buffalo with my grandparents."

"Where was your mom?"

"Not there." Cal shrugs.

"Oh." Ray can't even imagine growing up without his mom and dad around. Even when they moved to Arizona and his dad stopped talking to him, he'd still get phone calls every Sunday from his mom. Now that they're back in Chicago, she makes a habit of stopping by during the week to do his laundry and iron his shirts. He feels kind of weird about it, but he can't figure out a way to ask her to stop without hurting her feelings.

"So I'm sorta half and half. American citizenship, but I get told that I have a Canadian accent. I can't hear it, but whatever." Cal flips the last two pancakes onto his plate, spears one with his fork and offers it to Ray. Ray accepts it with a grunt, since his mouth is full of pancake.

"I always used to get stuck with the Canadian crap. Any job that had fucking anything to do with Canada, I'd end up getting stuck with. S'how I got involved with--" Cal shuts his mouth and turns away, taking a deep gulp of coffee. Ray has the feeling that he was about to say something about his last assignment, the one that he can't talk about.

They finish eating in silence. Ray stacks their plates in the sink without rinsing them-- another rebellion against Stella's rules of cleanliness-- and grabs another mug of coffee. "So, whatcha wanna do today?"

"I dunno." Cal shrugs. "It looks like a nice day out. You wanna go for a drive?"

"Sounds like a plan."

There's a brief argument over who's going to drive. Ray wins once he points out that it's a choice between cruising in the GTO or the boring beige sedan Cal's renting. "That car has no style. It's actually style-negative, it sucks the style right out of you."

"Good point. GTO it is. You sure I can't drive it?" Cal asks hopefully.

"No fucking way. Nobody drives my baby but me. Oh, hang on, I gotta feed Curtis."

"Curtis?"

"The turtle." Ray taps dried food out of a little container, crooning, "There ya go, Squirtis. Mmm, yummy food sticks."

Cal snickers. "You talk to your turtle?"

"He's a smart turtle. He understands what I say to him."

"He's a turtle. I'm pretty sure he has no fucking idea what you're saying to him."

"What, you got something against turtles?"

"I got nothing against turtles. Turtle soup is good. Mmm," Cal grins, rubbing his tummy.

"Gah! Don't listen to him, Curtis, he's lying." Ray closes the aquarium lid and stalks over to Cal, mock-glaring. "You better be lying. No turtle-murderers get to stay in my apartment."

"Calm down, I'm no turtle-murderer." Cal snags Ray's front belt-loops, tugging him closer. "So, um," he says, nibbling on Ray's ear, "Does this mean I get to stay? I mean, I can leave if you want me to, get a short-term lease somewhere. I don't want to crowd you."

Ray puts his hands on Cal's shoulders, but doesn't push him away. "I don't know-- I. Shit. I don't know. I want you to stay, but..."

"But you don't want it to feel too permanent?" Cal slides his fingers out of Ray's belt-loops, keeping his hands on Ray's waist.

"Yeah... yeah, kinda. I don't..."

"I get it, Ray. You're in love with Fraser, not me."

"I'm not-- yeah. Yeah, I am."

"S'okay. I'm not in love with you either." Cal shrugs. "This is fun and games, Ray. I like you, you like me; we have fan-fucking-tastic sex together. Nothing serious."

"Yeah." Ray chews on his lower lip, thinking. "If you wanna-- if you wanna stay for a while, like as a roommate, that'd be cool. Not _moving in_ together, just you staying here for a while. In my bed."

Cal grins. "Sounds like a deal." He slides his hands into Ray's back pockets and tugs him closer.

"Thought we were gonna go for a drive?" Ray asks, tilting his head back as Cal nibbles the side of his neck.

"Later," Cal murmurs.

"Okay..."


End file.
